


fruit of the heart

by sleepverses



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, guess who gives no fucks about canon, it me!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-01-13 05:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21238769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepverses/pseuds/sleepverses
Summary: “You know,” Madara says slowly, tasting the words as they leave his mouth. “You don’t need to worry. I don’t intend to die by anyone’s hand but yours.”au where madara and hashirama continued to meet, albeit secretly, during the warring states period.this is not a love story. this is an archive.





	1. Chapter 1

The things Madara only admits to himself and God in the quiet, in the dark, in close encounters with death. In these liminal spaces, the words can’t reach as far. They taste bloody and sweet and desperately shameful in his mouth. Was there already blood in Madara's mouth? Was it his or Hashirama's? 

He thinks this is what being an adult looks like, nineteen with constantly bruised ribs and a cocksure gait. He still has Izuna, and he has Hashirama again, and he wants more than anything for this to be enough. For Izuna, for him, for the war. He still meets Hashirama, sometimes by the river, sometimes elsewhere, always careful. He still thinks Hashirama's brother is a bastard. He still hates the deep taste of plums enough to give his to Hashirama, or at least he tells himself that, all the while watching as the juice wets his mouth and trickles down a veined wrist. His sharp eyes follow Hashirama's tongue as he messily licks his fingers, and when Madara hears his soft, wondering laugh, his eyes (not as sharp as he thought!) jerk up and meet Hashirama's, his too-knowing, too-open gaze. The white rush of the river their feet are dipped in suddenly fill Madara's ears, or perhaps it’s the blood pumping through his veins. In any case, it’s hot today, and if his face is flushed, it’s only because of the sun beating down. Nothing more. 

He isn't sure when it all changed. Maybe it never did. Hashirama has always been his friend-foe, the person that understands him better than anyone, before he ever had to speak, who sees his eye-roll and parries it with a laugh, and yet the person he was perhaps pre-destined to see to the end of the world. To beyond the veil, to death. 

On a clear moonlit night, his hair pulled into a tight ponytail, Madara spars with Hashirama in a deserted valley. Tonight, they agree to only taijutsu. They are evenly matched, but in different ways. The men both are clad in hakama alone, bare chested, sweaty and stained with reddish dirt. Hashirama's foot catches Madara in the mouth before he can duck, and Madara spears him hard in the gut. When he bends, coughing hard, Madara wipes his bloody mouth and charges into him, bowling the laughing man over. After a brief tussle, Madara ends up straddling him, and pulling Hashirama's wrists over his head, glares at him, daring him to break free. 

For a moment, Hashirama struggles but Madara's hold is iron, and his will fire. He can see the moment Hashirama's shoulders loosen, and the lazy smile spreads slowly across his chapped, split lips. Madara's grip does not ease. He knows too well how dirty a player Hashirama is. 

“Madara,” he says, guileless. “You win. You’ve got me.” 

Madara refuses to look too deep into that and instead releases his wrists. Light with victory, Madara sags, and collapses into his unforgiving chest, relishing the quiet 'oof!' Hashirama gasps, and hides a smile into the man's scarred shoulder. 

Rolling off him after a minute or two, and maneuvering until he rests perpendicular to Hashirama, he lies his head on Hashirama's muscled stomach. As Madara watches the stars, he can hear the man humming a lullaby softly, so soft he thinks he may be dreaming, but he does not imagine the fingers that slip the Uchiha crested ribbon out of his hair. Madara's breath hitches as Hashirama cards his fingers through, but not of pain. When slumber finds Madara, it is golden, and like nothing he has ever known before. 

When Madara is nineteen, there is a Nara girl who wants to kiss him, and curious, he lets her. She is soft around the edges, and her mouth presses against his, once, twice. When she licks into his mouth, Madara's mind’s eye flashes to a leaner, harder body pressed against his in sparring practice, and he sighs into her kiss, and pretends her tongue is plum-flavoured.


	2. Chapter 2

On a Tuesday, another skirmish bloodies the dirt surrounding northern Uchiha territory. 

When night falls, his friend is waiting by the river. When Hashirama sees him, honeysuckle erupts through the pebbles and sand at his feet, and relief colours his face. Sometimes, when he smiles like that, pink gums, closed eyes and all, Madara can’t stand to look at him. He burns, white hot and blinding, and his tender eyes can only take so much. Hashirama, ever affectionate, pulls him into a suffocating, too-hot hug, and Madara wonders if he can hear the skip in his heartbeat, the bottom fall out of his stomach. 

“Get off me, bastard.”

“I was worried you were dead, asshole!”

The river is always Creation serene, a portrait before man and woman and war. Madara palms a jagged rock, thumbing its geography, mapping its harsh curves. 

“You know,” Madara says slowly, tasting the words as they leave his mouth. “You don’t need to worry. I don’t intend to die by anyone’s hand but yours.”

Hashirama’s throw falters, and the stone in his palm tumbles lamely into the river. Madara can feel his heavy gaze, his memorizing the bruises and bloodied bandages. He won't admit he caught a decent left hook in the skirmish, and Madara's right eye is a mural of mottled purples and blacks. He can feel a deep blush rising from his neck up, and valiantly attempts to force it down. He watches intently as the round stone sinks and sinks, and Madara feels the same. 

“Madara,” he says finally, and there is no sweeter pain than hearing Hashirama say his name. “I would never let it come to that. This war will end soon.”

“Hashirama. We have seen twenty springs, with no end to this war in sight,” Madara replies bluntly. “Everyday more blood is shed. The Inuzuka encroach on our territory while our children starve and our men are slaughtered in battle.”

God, he sounds like his father. 

“You sound like your father,” he shoots, raising a brow. Fuck.

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“I do, Madara, but think all we could accomplish with an alliance! Not just the Uchiha and Senju, but across major clans and minor--“ Hashirama begins seriously. 

“Save the spiel,” he interjects, glancing at Hashirama askance. “I know your entire pitch by heart.”

An end to resource scarcity. An end to ceaseless death. An end to burials and incense burning, to fearing joy and light, to mourning both the dead and what could have been. A clan alliance a decade ago would have saved your brothers. A clan alliance a decade ago would have allowed your friendship into the light of day, instead of stolen moments in the night. 

Hashirama playfully knocks his shoulder into Madara and beams, and a fond smile tugs at Madara's split lip. 

\----

Later, Madara creeps silently into the window of the compound, chakra muted, and when he turns, bites his tongue to keep from screaming bloody murder at Izuna’s sudden feline presence. When his heart rate returns to the average human’s, he calmly slips off a sandal and whips it at Izuna's head. 

He smoothly ducks, but not quickly enough for Madara's other sandal. 

Izuna, seventeen and beautiful, smiles like a cat who has caught and mauled an unassuming canary. He leans against the wall, and tilts his head, raising an affected brow. Madara ignores him and strips, pulling on a clean cotton nemaki, and collapses tiredly into bed. Maybe if he doesn’t acknowledge Izuna, he’ll leave. 

“Where are you coming from at this hour, Anija?” Izuna asks slyly. 

No such luck. Madara glares at him from his futon, covers up to his chin.

“None of your damn business,” he informs Izuna, scowling. His brother laughs and slides open the shoji, disappearing behind the thin lattice. 

Lately, Izuna reminds Madara more and more of Hashirama, and men like him are trouble. He knows because he too is one of those men. Madara presses lightly on his tender bruises, and thinks of his words by the river. He is too jaded now to see an end to the constant battle. He doubts old men can listen to reason any longer. Instead, they breed and fuck and send their children to the slaughter. This is how Madara lost everyone but Izuna. 

He desperately wants differently for Izuna. 

But Hashirama -- Hashirama reminds Madara of an idyllic childhood dream stolen by the river, of laughter and stones and joy. He lights embers in Madara's spirit nothing has lit before, and deep in his belly, he knows the truth.

Madara dreams and he dreams and he dreams. 

He dreams of being run through with swords, of Hashirama’s wood jutsu, of Izuna’s smile bloody. He dreams of honeysuckle, flowing white robes, swirling leaves. Madara dreams of a deep laugh, calloused hands on his waist, a plum mouth on the unmarred skin of his inner thigh-- 

When Madara wakes, flushed and close, it only takes a handful of rough strokes and the ghost of heavy hands pushing his legs wide to find his release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> madara, w the kungfu skills of an ethnic mom


	3. Chapter 3

The new year is burning and unexpected, and with the season blossoms ravenous life, and sweet death. Within the first snowfall, the Uchiha welcome three newborns, and joyful young mothers are heralded for their vitality. In the next, a flash of disease kills a third of the population.

Madara is twenty-two, and his father is dead. 

He is twenty-two, stained with the blood of dozens. He is twenty-two, and his eyes are bleeding focus. He is twenty-two, and his depth perception is more than a little off, and he knows Hashirama has silently noticed.

Ever the pragmatist, his father insists Madara take his eyes before he gives his last breath. When he refuses, Tajima smiles ruefully, and beckons for Madara to come closer. He kneels by his bedside, and Tajima roughly pulls him in by the scruff of his neck. His father presses a kiss to his forehead, and Madara's eyes leak blood.

His father dies with his hand in Izuna's, and at twenty-two, Madara is the new clanhead. 

The surgery, of course, is a success. 

Madara is twenty-two, and there is never enough time. 

In the weeks following the transplant, Izuna cares for Madara through his grief. Every night, he carefully changes and re-wraps the thick bandages hiding his father’s eyes in his brother's sockets. When Madara's ocular nerves sear in their recovery, Izuna cradles his throbbing head in his lap, idly stroking his bangs out his aged face. In this state, Madara cannot leave the compound, but he is never alone in this strange melange of healing and mourning. Somber clan members attend Tajima’s wake, lighting candles and burning incense in weeping droves. Madara can’t help but be bored as they pray for his father’s peace and his own swift recovery, but he makes nice under Izuna’s watchful gaze. 

“Madara-san,” a soft voice says to his right. Madara tilts his sightless head in her direction, and recognizes her chakra as one of the new clan mothers. Izumi? Kikyo? The snuffling bundle in her arms continues its peaceful doze, and his lips quirk. 

“Thank you for coming.”

Izumi? Kikyo? touches his hand. “My daughter and I are humbled to have you as our newest clanhead,” she tells him. “All the Uchiha hold you in such high regard.”

Somehow he doubts the sleeping newborn gives a flying fuck about his latest appointment, but Madara thanks Izumi/Kikyo nonetheless. When she unceremoniously dumps her child into his arms, he is startled. Her mother insists this is an honour for the baby, and doing his best to not drop the child in front of the humming room, he cradles her in his arms. The newborn is honeydew soft, and her chakra flares as she dreams. Madara rocks her gently, awkwardly supports her neck. She smells like mother’s milk.

When the bandages are carefully peeled away from his [father’s] eyes, a part of Madara foolishly expects to see the world in the same unforgiving lens Tajima peered through. Instead, just as his sensitive eyes slowly flutter open, the first thing he sees is Izuna’s beaming face, resplendent even though his tears, and the world comes once again into focus. 

At dusk, he slips out the back gates of the grounds, heart pounding inexplicably in his throat, and dashes through the treetops to the riverbank. When he spots Hashirama lying on his back, hair strewn across the sand, mouth curved into a sweet crescent, something breaks free in his spine.

Hashirama opens his eyes.

“My father is dead.” Madara doesn’t mean to say it. He's sure Hashirama knows. But seeing Hashirama makes it something real, something tangible. He sees his friend, and he suddenly needs someone to just fucking get it. 

“I know.” Hashirama doesn’t offer condolences. Instead, he sits up, really looking at Madara, and his eyes say everything Madara has never had an answer for. 

“How did you know to come here tonight?”

“I waited for you,” he admits. Hashirama is beautiful and sheepish, glorious brown skin flushed with peachy undertones. Madara understands now that there is no helping this, whatever this is. He knows he wouldn’t want to even if he could. 

“Every night, actually, thinking you would come. For about three weeks,” Hashirama continues, sheepishly scratching his neck. “But then we got the news that there was a new Uchiha clanhead, one who had the strongest Sharingan of the bunch. And I knew it was you. So it was only a matter of time, and until then, I would come and wait for you.”

His smile is wistful and a little sad, but not unsurprised. “You have always had the most piercing eyes, Madara. That hasn’t changed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think my hashimada theme is probably rostam's in a river, acoustic vers. what's yours?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've kept up, you'll notice that I've changed the POV just so it would flow better. enjoy!

Madara is a powerful shinobi, the revered Uchiha clanhead, and men throw their daughters at his feet. At first, he toys with the idea of taking a wife. He finds himself attracted enough to women, beauty in the softness of a wrist, and the bell of a laugh, the mischief in a smile. But there is always something stopping him. 

Most days, he pretends to not know what it is.

Hashirama meets him nightly, by an orange grove deep within Senju lands, and together they draw plans for a ceasefire. The last time Hashirama accosted him on the battlefield, matching blow for blow, Madara felt more alive than he had in weeks. Over Hashirama’s shoulder, he catches sight of that bastard Tobirama deal Izuna a near fatal attack, and in that instant, Madara had flash stepped to his side, catching the Senju sword neatly. 

It was in this moment Madara knew the alliance needed to be drawn. He would not risk losing his only brother to death any longer.

Hashirama wraps his hair in a loose bun, and gesticulating wildly, points at the scrolls scattered around them. Madara bites back a laugh. 

“This is it, Madara. This is the foundation of everything that will come to pass.” Hashirama beams. “When we met,” he continues, “it was the hand of fate guiding us together.” 

He looks at Madara, and his eyes are liquid gold, and Madara thinks there is no room for anyone else in his chest. 

Distantly, Madara remembers being seventeen, and thinking this could never be possible. He knew his father’s rage all too well, and the curse that seemed to befall the Uchiha clan, creating an inheritance swathed in both love and hatred, a paranoia that sunk bone deep. Despite meeting with Hashirama on a regular basis, he feared his friendship was doomed. And yet despite his misgivings, Madara’s heart has never been one to listen his gut, and he found himself drawn to Hashirama more and more each day. 

One night, drunk on sake swiped from the deep recesses of the Uchiha cellar, as Hashirama excitedly ranted about the velvety Alocasia plant he had been nursing, Madara had watched his face, and wondered if, whatever this was, was as heady and deep for everyone else. Did all friends watch the way their friends wave their hands in the air as they spoke, memorizing their movements? Did they gaze at their buttery soft lips when they broke into an unabashed grin? Did their heart race when they caught a glimpse of a hard, muscled chest? 

Hashirama’s voice drags him back to reality. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, smiling. 

Madara’s face burns. “Nothing,” he says hastily. “Hashirama, you realize this is half the battle, don’t you? Convincing our clansmen is a different beast.”

He shrugs. “Together, we can do anything. Haven’t you realized that by now?”

Madara stares at him. 

Hashirama rocks against his shoulder. “With you by my side, Madara, I am never afraid.” 

Within the week, Madara calls a meeting and on a breezy spring day, the clan assembles in a designated parlour off the main compound, chattering good-naturedly amongst themselves. Izuna, laughing, chest swathed in bandages peeking from his loose nemaki, calls the meeting to order. He nods at his brother, and Madara stands, and inhales deeply. 

“Word has come of the Senju clan’s interest in a ceasefire,” he begins. 

The outrage is immediate and uproarious.

Madara holds up a firm hand, and silence falls. Izuna is no longer smiling, and Madara knows his brother must feel betrayed. All things worth doing are worth fighting for, he reminds himself. Across the room, angered, despairing faces stare back at him, and he thinks of Hashirama, his brilliant laugh, his unwavering confidence in Madara. His resolve deepens.

“As clanhead, I am interested in and indebted to the voice of all Uchiha. I exist only to serve our clan, and to forge a greater future for our children,” Madara continues calmly. “This Uchiha-Senju alliance would create prosperity for both our lands. No longer would we lose both men and women to the horrors of battle. No longer would our children die in our arms. No longer would we face starvation in the cold winter months.” 

“Do not think this is a choice I have taken lightly. I have pored over this for endless nights, wondering if this is the right path for the Uchiha.” He pauses, and meets Izuna’s eyes. “But I will no longer accept death as the inevitable path. I will no longer tolerate ceaseless agony and untenable violence as the way of the shin obi.”

“You may wonder if this is the correct course of action, and I am more than willing to discuss the particulars of an interclan alliance. This is a journey we must all embark on, united in our nindo, united in our desire for a plentiful and peaceful way. A ceasefire between our clans is the very beginning of what we can become.” 

Madara finishes his speech, and looks around the vast assembly room, meeting the eyes of each and every woman and man. His heart rushes wildly in his ears. 

Hours later, once the congregation begins to disperse, Madara, with Izuna at his side, bows to every elder and shakes hands with each shinobi as they leave the compound. He smiles and accepts kind words and soothes fears, and on one occasion, kisses a baby. 

When the last clan member has disappeared, Madara races to to debrief with Hashirama at their previously agreed upon destination, a quiet Senju honey grove Hashirama has been tending to since he assumed his own position as clanhead. He finds the man leaning against a tall oak, munching on the last of a dripping honeycomb, licking slick golden honey away from his fingers. Hashirama looks up as he approaches, and smiles fondly.

“You did it.” Hashirama laughs. “I only see that look in your eye when you best me in battle, you absolute freak. They went for it?”

“They went for it,” Madara confirms, and bowls Hashirama over in a tight hug. They fall into the tall, unkempt grass, giddy with joy and disbelief, breaking into heady, tender laughter. Hashirama rolls them over, holding Madara down by his shoulders, and beams at him.

“Only you could have done this,” he says. His hair hangs over them like a veil. “Only you could have ended a century long war between our clans.” 

Madara laughs wildly, unwavering in his joy, and strokes Hashirama’s cheek. “This was you. I am only the man I am because of you.” 

He has never felt euphoria, absolute life like this before. The sky above them is dark, glistening with faraway stars, but all around him is Hashirama and golden heavenlight. Idly, he notices honeysuckle flowers blooming around their tangled form.

Hashirama gazes down at him, and when he suddenly leans in, Madara is helpless. Hashirama’s lips brush against his, and Madara can’t breathe. Hashirama kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, and his mouth tastes like the finest honeycomb, golden and sticky and unending. He licks into Madara’s mouth, and his tongue is all encompassing, and seizing, and terrible, and sweet. Madara moans into his mouth and drags Hashirama closer, so close he isn’t sure what is what, only that he is certain he never wants Hashirama to ever let him go.


	5. Chapter 5

Madara never expects to find salvation.

They do not name what they are doing, but Hashirama knows he is one of only two people Madara would die for. 

There is work to be done left and right, and rarely a quiet moment. But they make time when they can, often meeting clandestinely, if only to trade soft kisses and quiet words. On more than one occasion, at the end of a long day, Hashirama is convincing enough [re: alluring enough] for Madara to follow him to his quarters.

Easy as falling asleep, they find themselves kissing and shedding clothing, stroking hard planes, and soft scars. Their first time touching each other feels like they’ve been here before. 

“I want you to live forever,” Hashirama whispers in his ear, stroking circles aimlessly into Madara’s muscled back. Madara buries his face in Hashirama’s hair and presses a kiss against his neck, half asleep in the quiet warmth. 

“That seems terribly lonely,” Madara replies absentmindedly. He is instead focused on Hashirama’s nakedness underneath him, the feel of his hot bare skin against his own. Madara is more than a little afraid he is under a powerful genjutsu, or a vivid fever dream, so he catalogues what he can. 

Hashirama hitches a breath as the man kisses his way down his neck, down his sternum, down down down, and takes him between plush lips, into his hot, wet mouth ---  
\---and sucks. 

Stars explode behind Hashirama’s eyes, and ruby flowers blossom from between the slits of the floorboards. 

Madara is focused on tonguing Hashirama’s slit, the heavy weight of his cock in his mouth, feeling his own manhood harden in response to the erotic taste of skin and salt. He moans softly, and takes him deeper, firmly stroking the base of Hashirama’s cock, slipping him out of his mouth, and sucking on a thick, pulsing vein. Hashirama groans and spreads his legs wider, reaches a hand down and buries it in Madara’s hair, guiding him deeper. Madara flushes and sucks him in earnest, pumping him eagerly. 

“You’re amazing,” Hashirama gasps, throwing his head back. “We should’ve done this sooner. Your fucking mouth, God.”

Madara pulls off with a slick pop.

“Hashirama.”

“Yeah?” The response is breathless.

“Shut up and come in my mouth.” 

Hashirama cackles, and drags Madara up by his hair, and he goes, and their mouths meet in a heady, warm kiss. Madara pushes him away, smirking, and takes him once more into his mouth. 

Later, Hashirama holds him down and sucks him off, only pulling off to ask Madara to fuck his mouth like he means it. 

Madara nearly blacks out. 

When he finds his release, it’s in the midst of roughly fucking Hashirama’s face, holding the man’s head to his pubic bone. 

Dawn is both unwelcome and a surprise. Madara wakes suddenly with Hashirama entangled around him like a satisfied cat, and he realizes he is still in the Senju main house, in the clanhead’s quarters, naked in his bed. Not ideal, he thinks wryly, but his heart swells as Hashirama drools on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two updates in a day?? who the hell do I think I am
> 
> in any case, thanks for reading so far! we're not done yet haha


	6. Chapter 6

Summer is the morning sun burning a tender kiss into Madara’s freckled shoulders. Bare chested, he lies on his bedroll in his quarters off the back entry of the compound, dozing lightly. A stray cat, fur mottled black and browns, pads close by outside the double doors leading to the garden.

It takes him a minute to remember he does not, in fact, own a cat. 

He shoves at Hashirama, and the man jolts awake. “Waz happening?” he says blearily.

“Bastard. Why did you let me fall asleep?”

He clambers out of the bedroll, shoving blankets aside to find his scattered belongings. 

Hashirama stares at him, unimpressed. “Why is this my fault? Was I supposed to kick you out?” 

Madara tugs on his pants, and huffs. There is no one to blame here, but Madara is still unsettled by the possibility of being caught unawares -- to be utterly vulnerable, in an unfamiliar place. He feels jittery, like a tramp dog desperate to break and run. 

Instead, he leans down, and presses a soft kiss against the corner of Hashirama’s mouth. 

“It’s not you,” he says softly. “You know everything is about you to me.” 

Hashirama rubs a thumb against his cheekbone, and shifts into a mischievous smile. 

“You snore, like, really loud. Is it a medical thing?” 

The village is named Konohagakure. 

The months that follow are a flurry of city planning, meetings, drawing up plans for urban development, more meetings, further alliance building, both in and out of the village, and even more meetings. Madara has a hand cramp from writing up legislative decrees that never truly fades. 

For three weeks, Hashirama leaves the village with a delegation to both Uzushiogakure, and Kirigakure, to act as a diplomatic courier and curry favour with local governments. Madara offers to act as an escort, but Hashirama insists he stay and mind the village in his absence. 

On the day Hashirama returns, he finds Madara crouched by the riverbend, skipping stones. Sensing a presence, Madara looks up, and unbidden, his Sharingan whirls. A crystalline snapshot is preserved; a beaming Hashirama standing over him, golden brown skin flushed, thick chestnut hair in a loose braid. Something breaks loose in Madara’s chest, and the bottom is finally back in his stomach. His nerves are finally settled.

“Good to see you back in one piece,” he says gruffly.

Hashirama rolls his eyes, and he shakes his head, grinning. “You’re too kind. Come. An Uzumaki clan delegation came back with us. We have a meeting.”

Madara sighs and stands, brushing the dirt off his pants. “Of course we do.”

“Oh, and—" Hashirama slips a hand across the back of his neck, and pulls Madara into a deep, tender kiss. His hands slide into Madara’s wild shock of hair, and he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. His mouth is hard and insistent, depraved and holy, and Madara drinks him in til his knees are weak. 

When Hashirama pulls away, he keeps his forehead pressed to Madara’s forehead, and he smiles. 

“I missed you.”

The meeting is really just a meet and greet for the clan representatives of the village, and the Uzumaki delegation. There is no way it can’t go well.

Suffice it to say, the meeting does not go well. 

Madara slams his hand on the cherrywood table. Across the room, a man raises his eyebrows, and his cat’s smile widens. 

“Let me put it plainly,” Madara says, almost saccharine. “If you keep talking, I’m going to break your legs.”

“Okay, well,” Hashirama exhales, “that’s not really constructive.”

Madara catches Hashirama’s eye and his cheeks, already thrumming with his rage, flush deeper. Focus, his inner voice demands, and he cuts his gaze away. There’s another Senju demanding his attention, and it’s the one begging for a throttling. 

Senju Tobirama is tall and broad shouldered, with cat eyes and a weasel mouth. His hair is a shock of white, and Madara has lost count of the amount of times he has tried to murder him before Hashirama got in the way. 

Tobirama waves his hand dismissively. “No, Anija, it’s fine. The Uchiha knows I’m ready anytime, any place.” 

“Preferably not during a meeting,” his brother interjects. 

Tobirama shrugs. His eyes narrow at Madara’s vibrating frame. “Any time, any place.”

Madara grits his teeth. The sharp look Hashirama throws at him is the only thing stopping him from leaping across the table. 

An Uzumaki elder, baring a strong resemblance to the hulking dog to his left, frowns through his whiskers. “I thought the conflict between the Senju and Uchiha clans had already been resolved.”

“It has. This is just a disagreement on a moral basis,” Madara snipes. 

Just as Tobirama’s temple pulses, and he opens his mouth to shoot a barbed response, Hashirama claps his hands. “You know, it’s getting rather late, and I know Uzumaki-san must be tired. Why don’t we close up shop and reconvene later this week?”

Hashirama stands, and escorts the delegation out the meeting room, and the others file out, chatting quietly. Madara leans back in his seat and rubs a tired hand over his eyes. He knew building a foundation for a village wouldn’t be easy, but gods, it’s nearly impossible to look past deep seated grudges. 

A lithe finger taps his nose, and he slits his fingers to find Hashirama standing over him, a fond, slightly exasperated smile tugging against his lips. Madara runs a tongue over his own. 

“You’re lucky I like you. Come get a drink with me, you shit-stirrer.”

Senju Hashirama had the type of wavy, ruffled and glossy hair Madara didn’t have, and distinctly despised. His eyes were at times sharp and cunning, but could easily slip into friendly and light. Madara didn’t like looking at his mouth, because his mouth was the type of mouth that made Madara distinctly uncomfortable. It was the type of mouth that had a wry edge to it, the type of mouth that laughed both loudly and smirked privately, the type of mouth that let you know that you were always in on the joke. At twenty three, he was tall and broad shouldered, his dark head noble and proud. The best thing about Hashirama, though, was perhaps a tie - not only could he not hold his liquor, he was a terrible gambler. 

Madara often cleaned him out.

“This is just depressing,” Madara tells him. Hashirama laughs loudly and claps him on the back. His hand is hot and heavy.

“I’ll get you next time, old friend!” he shouts.

Madara winces. “No, you won’t. Keep it down, we’re outside the residential area.”

Hashirama looks around. So they were. The village moon spills serenely over dirt streets, and Madara can only see Hashirama’s flushed skin, his easy smile, the stain of spilled sake on the breast of his yukata. He can smell the heaviness of the fruity sake on his lover’s breath, and it seems like the sweetest call home. 

As Madara watches him, the man shakes his hair over his shoulder, and catching his gaze, smiles warmly. Hashirama steps closer, pushing his hot, muscled frame against him, pressing a clumsy hand on his chest, and thumbing the opening of his shirt. 

“Funny meeting you here,” Hashirama purrs. 

Madara rolls his eyes, steadying him with a firm hand on his back. “You’re such a fucking lightweight.”

“Mmm, but you like that about me. Otherwise, what high horse could you ride?” Hashirama presses further into him, and slowly begins to press light, burning kisses against his neck. Madara could feel his hard cock pressing against his thigh, and the blood rushing to his own. 

“Let’s get you into bed,” Madara whispers, a tad urgently, and squeezes Hashirama into him. Hashirama shakes his head. 

“Can’t. The Uzumaki have brought a large delegation. My quarters are in use, so I’ll be sleeping in my study.” 

Madara cups his cheek, and runs a scarred thumb over Hashirama’s dry lips. His eyes slip to half mast, and his mouth opens slightly. 

“Ever the gentleman.” Hashirama pretends to bite at his thumb, and Madara laughs loudly. “Stay with me tonight.” 

“I’ll be imposing,” he says. 

Madara clucks his tongue, leaning his mouth against Hashirama’s ear.

“You won’t be if I have ways to make you pay,” husks Madara, and catches Hashirama’s lobe in his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! been going thru it lately n your comments really do mean the world. hope you all are good & life is sweet.


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